


Getting the short end of the stick

by That_inconsistent_girl



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), Thor (Movies)
Genre: BAMF Reader, Character Development, F/F, F/M, Fluff, Lots of character development, Multi, Odin is shit, Reader has 8746 brain cells but chooses not to use it, Reincarnation, Sif lowkey really gay, The Warriors Three is better here, Will add more tags along the way, both Thor and Loki are cinnamon buns, but he gets, children to growing up, gaslighting with Frigga, loyalty and love coming in hot!, one day.. one day, ooh! A snek!, reader fixes everything, reader is gonna punch fate in the face, reader is just trying her best, reader is tangled in the game of royalties, reader lowkey wanna die, reader turns into a therapist for the whole Odin family, slowburn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-09
Updated: 2019-12-09
Packaged: 2021-02-25 22:35:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 410
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21733096
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/That_inconsistent_girl/pseuds/That_inconsistent_girl
Summary: Getting reincarnated in one of the nine realms was DEFINITELY not a part of my bucket list. Nor was ever being tangled in the horrible game of royalties. Ugh, i keep getting the short end of the stick whatever life i get! It's hard to stop the urge to spit at the King of the nine realms but I manage to control myself enough to actually save both Thor and Loki from the rivalry they're about to be tossed in! (Or at least tried to) being a therapist wasnt one of my dream jobs too but hey, shit happens.
Relationships: Fandral (Marvel)/Reader, Hogun (Marvel)/Reader, Loki (Marvel)/Reader, Sif (Marvel) & Reader, Thor (Marvel) & Reader
Kudos: 3





	Getting the short end of the stick

**Author's Note:**

> WARNING: character death and lots of mentions about wanting to die

I feel weak.

My breath is thinning and my eyelids are drooping. My body feels as though cement was running through my veins. I can't lift a finger, I can't flinch an eyelash. I _can't_ move.

I'm weak and I'm getting weaker. The heaviness of my body and my unwillingness to move is both a relief and a nightmare. I don't know if I'm doing this to myself on purpose. I don't know if I really _can't_ move. Is there a line to this? Is it a line I should concern myself with? When it comes to this, is it really that important?

_Do I have to know the difference?_

A lot would say yes, often with concern etched in their face, some would say no, others, others would give me an understanding nod. They're the ones more patched up than me. They're the ones _making_ effort. What does that make me? _"Someone with imposter syndrome."_ They would smile. I don't remember who they are. They're close, that much I'm sure.

I've dreamt of this moment. Of what it would be like to just, drop everything and just let go. I've wondered if it would be freeing, to leave this stiff bed, this building, the sterile smell that followed like a clingy lover, the white blaring walls, hell, _the warm smiles._ I've wondered. I've daydreamed, daydreamed way too many times. Enough times to feel guilty of it.

I've dreamt to feel the time before of birth. To see nothing, to feel nothing, to think nothing. I like to think it's cozy, there, to just _be,_ yet _not._

I thought I'd be happy, perhaps even sad. But I feel nothing. No relief, no longing, no regrets. It just _is._ Just like what I felt when my birthday passed. And the next, and the next, until I just forgot my birthdays all together.

I'd like to be comfortable. I want to sit down in a fluffy chair, maybe with a mug filled with cocoa in my hand, near the fireplace and listen to the rythm of the cackles. Stare at the warm chaotic dance inside the small fireplace and smell the gentle mix of ash and books instead of the bitter sterile of the hospital. I want to die that way.

And so I do. Not in my fantasies, but in the white, sterile room.

I close my eyes, and for one last time, I grasp the small end of the stick.

**Author's Note:**

> Rewrote this story like, three times and I dont regret a thing.


End file.
